


jagged

by en passant (corinthian)



Series: Knuckle Up [2]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: ?? is this sexual ??, Dubious Consent, M/M, but also dubious in many senses, some light gore kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: The powerful create the world as he will know it.it's not a nice moment, but it is somewhat self-explanatory.





	jagged

It isn’t a fight in the ring. There isn’t a cheering audience, a referee, a bookkeeper. It’s just an honest fight — the best kind, where the only thing on the line is their bones and blood. How did it even come about? Probably the guy had given him shit and Ayer had replied in kind.

It didn’t really matter.

It is the best fight of his life (the best fight, before he learned the truth, before he met the Skyfarers and before his world expanded, brightly, beautifully). He almost dies. He hadn’t expected the knife and it ripped from his collarbone down across his chest and down all the way to his hip. The sharp sting of the cut, the slice of pain and the sudden thought that he could die there — in the dirty alley, with the shit and debris at his feet, between two buildings he didn’t know the name to, in a city far away from where he grew up — was exciting. Even when the punch to his cheek was so hard his vision spotted and his ears continue to ring long after the blow had been dealt and even when he was dropped to the ground by a brutal leg sweep he could only laugh. Breathless, pained wheezing between fits of laughter as his ribs protested the following stomp and kick, the way boot treads dug into the gaping wound across his chest.

He would probably die here.

“Shit.”

The third time his head hits the pavement and blood pools under his scalp and wet his hair, something crackled. Like effervescent bubbles, knuckles popping, like vision coming together with sudden clarity. Ayer stood his ground and when he scrambles to his feet, the next punch can’t rock him. He bowed over, one hand pinching the edges of the cut closed, the blood soaking the bandages wrapped around his hands and wrists but he said, “Hurry up, let’s finish this.”

He probably should have died there.

Instead his feint was successful, too successful and his follow up blows knocked his attacker back into a wall and it became Ayer’s turn to slam the other into the ground. Once, twice, three and four times he lifts the man by the hair and then dropped his head back against the stone. The sound is familiar and comforting to him. 

He staggers out of the alley — where Bowman meets him, having been conspicuously absent.

“What the hell,” Ayer mutters.

“Knew you could handle it, partner. You’re the best,” Bowman laughs, ruffled his hair, loops an arm around Ayer to support him. But even with Bowman’s help he barely made it back home and once he tripped and landed on the floor he decides not to get up again. Good enough. “It’s not like you would have wanted help anyway. I lose either way, right? Get mad at me if I’m there, get mad at me if I’m not.”

“You better not have just been watching, asshole.” 

“Hey, hey, even if I was, what’s wrong with that? I’m always cheering for you, Ayer.”

Bowman sits down next to him, starts to unwrap his hands. But, as always, he sucks at it. So Ayer swats him away and tiredly unwraps his own hands, shrugs out of his jacket and shirt and curls over to examine his own still bleeding wound before straightening with a hiss.

“Pain in the ass.” He gripes.

“Says you.”

“Says me.” He agrees.

“Thought you were gonna bite it, huh?” Bowman asks.

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up, or I’ll beat you up too.”

“Yeah? Come on then.”

Ayer swings a punch, but Bowman just catches his fist and pulled him close by it. He jams his knee up against Ayer’s gut, not quite digging into the long cut, but dangerously close to it. Ayer balances, barely, half leaned over Bowman’s lap, grits his teeth and relents, a little. His free hand goes to Bowman’s shoulder, for balance.

“You ever think about how we could kill each other? Just like that. We’re both savage like that, huh?” Bowman grins, with all his teeth.

“And who’s the champion here? I’ll rip you apart before you even get close.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re still all wound up. C’mon,” Bowman teases. Laughs. He pulls Ayer into his lap, twists his wrist and arm around painfully before he trapping him with a forearm across his chest. “Today’s been a learning experience for us both. Didn’t think anyone would get that close to beating you, but you really showed me your pluck. Let me show you something new too then.”

“Hey — what are you even talking about?!”

“I know you better than you now yourself, Ayer. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. The way you feel after a fight, really gets your blood going, doesn’t it? ’S why I don’t mind watching you. You’re the best there is.”

“So? What’s your point? I already know that.”

“It’s not good unless you almost die, huh?” Bowman continues as if Ayer hadn’t spoken. He does not release Ayer’s hand, but instead moves his arm from across his chest to skim the edges of the cut with his fingertips. “Isn’t this a little too close?”

Ayer jerks forward at the touch, curls in on himself as much as possible. Bowman’s fingers leave behind an aching pain and dull stinging.

“No.” 

“You wanna die, Ayer?”

“Is that a joke!?”

“What did you say before? There’s no point if there’s no risk, right?”

“I don’t feel anything if it isn’t like that.” He grits out.

“Hm, let’s test that theory then.”

It’s as good as asking: do you trust me. But instead it’s Bowman taking Ayer’s hand in his own, the back of Ayer’s hand to his palms. He guides Ayer — as he has before, as he did before when he was teaching Ayer to fight. When he held Ayer’s (then, smaller) fists in his hands and walked him through a jab, an uppercut, a proper punch. 

But this time it’s different. 

Bowman guides Ayer’s fingers to the gaping cut, shoves their combined hands against it. He has Ayer brutalize himself, dig into the edges of the wound and feel the entire shape, from collarbone, across the navel, to pelvis. They start (together) at the collarbone, feel the smallest part of the slit, before pushing down on the split skin and hard round of the bone. Blood wells up under their fingers, and Bowman moves their hands. Rubs across the wound, twists Ayer’s wrist so he can force the tip of Ayer’s index finger underneath the skin.

He — they both — ignore Ayer’s discomfort. His wheeze of pain and the overstimulated shudders that rock his body as blood drips down his wrist, drips down his chest, pools on the floor underneath them.

Bowman guides their hands down, settles their fingers right above where the sternum should be where the wound curves, widens, where it goes deeper. He pushes another of Ayer’s fingers beneath the surface, through the bubble of blood and it’s only his weight against Ayer’s back that keeps Ayer from moving up and away from his own hand.

Ayer won’t say stop, he won’t ask Bowman to stop. Even as by the time their hands have moved down to his cut, three of his fingers are inside of his own body, down to the second knuckle. His vision blurs with pain and it’s only then that he moves his free hand — lifts his other arm to elbow Bowman in the face. That’s the way they communicate. Force, violence. That was what Ayer learned from Bowman, that’s the way of the world they can make for themselves. The powerful create the world as he will know it. But his elbow never reaches Bowman’s face. Instead Bowman also catches that hand, curls down over Ayer, pressing them both forward and down.

His whole hand is probably inside his gut, now. He doesn’t know. It hurts and every breath feels like his fingers are rubbing up against the bottom of his rib cage, against his stomach, it feels like his own fingers are drilling through his intestines even though he knows that can’t be true. His fingers twitch and flex and he almost throws up. He can only see his own knees, black spots, blood.

“Just keep breathing, Ayer.” Bowman’s voice is in his ear. He can feel Bowman holding both of his hands, one also in the well of blood and flesh. The other wrapped around his fist, keeping him from striking, holding him in place as every small movement sends his body shifting over the intrusion.

He starts to cry. He cries as Bowman drags their fingers down, widening the already wide gash down through the side wall of his abdomen to his hip. He can’t help it then, body spasming and jerking against Bowman’s firm hold. It’s too much and his pained tears turn to sporadic sharp inhales and weak sobs.

And in that moment there’s only blood and pain and Bowman and he loses sight of himself entirely. It could, probably, be as good as almost dying. The release comes sharp and sudden and Bowman’s pressure on his back, his hold on Ayer’s hand, the added bulk of extra fingers inside the wound all vanish at once. It leaves Ayer slumped forward across the floor, desperately hugging himself and curling up, protectively, exhausted, barely hanging on.

“You wanna die, Ayer?” Bowman asks again.

He shakes his head. It’s clear, it’s sharply in focus. Everything in the world aligns. It’s the exact opposite, he wants to feel alive all the time.

(He doesn’t die. He spends almost two days on the floor, until he can get his feet under himself again. He accepts Bowman slinging an arm around his shoulders. Only hits him once for the trouble. Tries to forget the feeling of something — someone — else digging around inside his body.)

(Do you trust me, partner?)


End file.
